


White Walls

by mackdizzy, Omnixi



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Medical, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Assisted Suicide, Asylum Medicine, Background Character Death, Bill Cipher is a Jerk, Closeted Character, Doctor Bill Cipher, Doctor Ford Pines, Doctor/Patient, Electroconvulsive Therapy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gaslighting, Historical Accuracy, Homosexuality, Human Bill Cipher, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Insane Bill Cipher, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Lobotomy, Loss of Control, Loss of Sanity, Loss of Trust, M/M, Manipulative Bill Cipher, Medical Torture, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Minor Original Character(s), Murder, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, Not Anyone Important, Original Character Death(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paranoia, Paranoid Ford Pines, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Psychiatrist Ford Pines, Psychological Torture, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Sleep Deprivation, Stolen Identity, Suicide, Unethical Medicine, Unrequited Crush, Young Ford Pines, asylum AU, hydrotherapy, or at least I try, psychotic tendencies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:41:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28139370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackdizzy/pseuds/mackdizzy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnixi/pseuds/Omnixi
Summary: During the rise of psychiatric medicine, an infamous physician holds the secrets to many innovative treatments, making a wave in the industry. Along with all the enigma and excitement surrounding the man comes the ambiguity of his name and appearance.Desperately understaffed and overcome with the need to gain knowledge of these new treatments, Northwest Heights Sanitarium successfully contacts the clever-minded doctor after several attempts. Upon his arrival, he appears clean-cut and professional, but the chaos which ensues after may reveal his intentions are not as innovative as they seem.
Relationships: Bill Cipher/Ford Pines
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	1. Stranger with Solutions

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look at that, a new fic already! 
> 
> This time I have help :D  
> (Hi Mack!)  
> This fic is based off of- and uses- excerpts from our roleplay we've been working on together. In other words, it's a lot more developed in terms of plot than my last fic.  
> Playlist for this work- https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2g1hA9N8RZaB56Elu5mvO6?si=IoCkUa_USJGgAUnj6MzJJg
> 
> My platform on ALL social media: @/Omnixi  
> Mack's platforms:  
> insta/tiktok- @/mack9.duracell  
> tumblr- mack9duracell  
> a03- @mackdizzy

Psychiatric health and medicine was on the up and up. A boom and flourish in innovative treatments was on the rise, and everyone was doing everything and anything they could within the medical field to just get a glimpse at it all. Everyone wanted in on the Nobel prizes, and journalists wanted special access, just to get a sliver of a look of what was behind those institution doors all over America. 

There was _one_ physician most assumed only to be a legend, probably due to the constant barrage of ever-changing rumors. The only surefire way to make certain he wasn’t fictional was his mark on the industry: his revolutionary treatments he discovered and frequently practiced. Not even a trustworthy fable of his name could be allocated. It was next to impossible to get on a list to even speak with the man, nevertheless get him to visit a specific facility outside of his own- wherever that may be. However, Northwest Heights Sanitarium had managed. Somehow, some way. 

Now, technically, the sanitarium was run by the Dean of the Board of Medicine. That was an important technicality. Rules of the Dean were to be followed strictly; other staff members took orders from him, of course, and technicalities tended to handle things that were….well, technical, in nature. After the Dean(Dr. Axel O. Lottle), the hospital was facilitated under two separate doctors and the leads of certain departments. In order from highest rank to lowest: Dr. Stanford F. Pines--who held the position of head physician at the institute--Dr. Thaddeus ‘Tad’ Strange, Bud Gleeful, the Head Orderly (who, at the peak of the rumors of the mysterious physician, was not present, and was instead visiting family out of state.), and Susan Wentworth, the head of the nursing department.  
  


The Dean wasn't always around, and very often, the little things were left to Stanford Pines as head physician. It was a stressful job. _Beyond_ stressful. It seemed as if all his subordinates liked to forget that they were working with people here, even if they weren't exactly... _normal_ people. It was a relief to Stanford that he was at the top for that reason among many others. This was not a place he could bear to let spiral out of control. 

It had seemingly gotten that way, however. Unfortunately. Stanford was running out of solutions. Things were getting messier faster than he could clean up the edges without resorting to methods that weren't morally right with him, and he was beginning to crack under the pressure. He needed help. He needed help so he begged, _begged_ the Dean to make the right phone calls, and though he had never thought it would happen, it had. 

The big day was finally upon them; The illustrious doctor was to make his appearance and grace the entire staff with his knowledge. Nurses and orderlies were all lining up anywhere they could to greet the man, the myth, the legend himself. Every nurse looked their absolute best, every orderly waited with their heads held high, and Dr. Lottle- who had gathered his staff at the front stoop- stood tall and confident to welcome their esteemed guest.

Ford was only a little overwhelmed from all the preparations, but the anxious wait was finally coming to an end as a bright yellow taxi car halted a short distance past the large gates, tires shifting the gravel in a heart-stopping uneasiness. Silence fell over the staff as the parked vehicle became the main focus of those who stood upon the stone steps leading up to the main entrance of the hospital. The back passenger door opened; all breath was held. The silence seemingly grew thicker until a tall figure with well-kept blond hair, dual colored eyes(one a deep blue, the other honey amber), and perfect complexion emerged from the taxi, shutting the door swiftly behind him. Everything from his waistcoat to his tie and neatly pressed white shirt made his image that much more breathtaking. In his hand, he held a dark, cowhide leather suitcase and a pristinely folded up white coat. Sure, Ford was stressed. Stressed--until he saw the man he was to be working with. The man who had _solutions_ to his _problems_ . He saw him, and suddenly the stress was replaced with something he couldn't even name. All the breath was taken from his lungs in a single instant as if the blond individual had reached into his chest and robbed him of the will to even _try_ to inhale.

With the driver now pulling away from the hospital, the silence was filled once more with the grinding of gravel beneath charcoal rubber. This left the mysterious individual to make his way past several members of the staff without as much as a glance or single regard to any of them; until he came face to face with the Dean. 

"It is such a pleasure- an _honor_ \- to have you visiting with us, Mr.-" 

" _Doctor_ . Cipher. Bill Cipher." The man corrected in a smooth voice and a charming smile, effectively cutting Dr. Lottle off. _Bill_ looked very clean cut, from every mannerism to every article of clothing he wore. Even his damn cologne was immaculate. _Intoxicating_ , really. 

A soft hum was exiled from The Dean’s lungs at the correction, a warm smile was mirrored before the greeting was continued. "Dr. Cipher. I hope you find that my staff are as compliant with you as they are with me. We have some wonderful individuals on our team. I'd like for you to meet our head physician." Dr. Lottle now motioned to the scholar next to him. Dual colored eyes smoothly followed the gesture before resting upon the brunet. "This is Dr. Stanford Pines. Several PhDs and a very intellectual man. You will be working alongside him to guide our staff." 

A smooth, lightly tanned hand reached out in an offered handshake. "A pleasure." Bill greeted with that same attractive smile. Thankfully, Ford composed himself by the time he'd gotten the mystery doctor's name, until he stuck out his hand to shake Bill's. The doctor's smile was so crooked, but it drew him in like a worm on a hook. He even _smelled_ nice. What the hell was going on in here? It must've been the stress of the day- that could easily take a toll on one’s thoughts. 

With introductions out of the way, Dr. Lottle moved to lead their new guest, as well as Stanford, inside. The rest of the staff, waiting outside, watched for as long as they could; women moving on tippy-toes and men shifting from side to side to get a final glimpse of the luminary- before begrudgingly returning to their individual duties once the blond was completely out of sight.

The Dean stopped short soon after entering the building, turning now to fully face Dr. Cipher, hands clasping behind his back in a proper manner. Bill raised an eyebrow--of course, a challenging glance. 

"I hate to cut our time short especially on account that you've just arrived, but I do have a meeting within the next fifteen minutes. I'll leave the tour up to Dr. Pines for now. We'll speak again very soon." With that, The Dean turned on his heel with purpose, effectively dismissing himself. 

Bill watched the man until he was out of view all together. Though the blond seemed very well put together, something was a bit off about him; his personality. He seemed rather quiet or distant. But perhaps that was just his professionalism. 

Abruptly, the esteemed physician looked to his new colleague. "Forgive me for my blunt observations, but it seems you are extremely understaffed." With a hospital this big, there should have been at least one more physician on staff. By the looks of it, Bill didn’t seem very pleased with his own observation. His eyes grew slightly judgmental in the way he surveyed his surroundings. 

"Oh, we are--" Ford laughed at that, in the back of his throat. Bitter and restrained--"We are incredibly understaffed. I'm having a hard time holding on to physicians." Ford wasn't always incredibly liked with the majority of the staff that were here, though he was praying he'd be able to chalk it up to something else around Bill, something that made everyone seem as desperate as he felt.

The blond male sucked in a sharp breath at the manner in which Stanford seemed so light about lacking proper resources, though he continued their conversation all the same. "Shame. For such a large facility, I suppose I would have expected something different." Things happen, of course, and people fall out of love with their line of work. Especially in this day and age, where anyone could be considered mentally ill for any number of reasons. God, you could _breathe_ wrong one day and someone would accuse you of being clinically insane. 

Ford didn’t seem to notice Bill’s train of thought, barreling right along with hasty explanations. "Bud isn't here right now, though he isn’t a physician so that hardly matters." Was that rude? Either way, he could care less. "Would you like me to show you around? The elevator is _horrifically_ slow, so apologies there, but all the staff rooms are on the upper floors, so it is unfortunately a necessity."

Ford seemed different--but not in a way Bill would call redeemable or admirable. Most of these men in practice with psychiatry were all the same. All they cared about was the sedation and management of patients. It was repulsive, to say the least. Dr. Cipher held no smile for the entirety of that quick exchange until the very minute Ford offered a tour. Then, and only then, did that charming smile return. "I would appreciate a tour. I like to familiarize myself with the facilities I visit. I gain a better understanding of its needs that way.” And he would.

A sense of passion for his line of work, that was admirable. He was an individual who was aware of his surroundings, so much so that many may be lost in the amount of detail this prestigious physician _actually_ took notice to. 

  
Perhaps _others_ should learn to be just as observant. Possibly for their own good.


	2. Pressing Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: MENTION OF SUICIDE  
> Not a graphic depiction, but keep it in mind.  
> Hope everyone had a fantastic holiday and Happy New Year!  
> Playlist for this Fic:  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2g1hA9N8RZaB56Elu5mvO6?si=IoCkUa_USJGgAUnj6MzJJg
> 
> My platform on ALL social media: @/Omnixi  
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"Rooms for faculty are on the top floor. We provide essentials to staff who spend the majority of their hours devoting themselves to their work here-- and of course to those who visit such as the federal and state boards...as well as yourself." There was a moment, a brief pause where Stanford trailed off on his thoughts and hesitation fell over him at that final notion. Bill was to be staying _here,_ within the _facility_ , and that brought a sense of...immense relief to Ford, to say the least. 

Ford cleared his throat before continuing on with their little tour. It was pretty evident to tell how _stressed_ Stanford was over the day, with the bags under his eyes seeming dark and his slightly-messy hair sitting a bit out of place. One of his collar edges was even sticking straight up. "I am _so_ interested in hearing about these procedures you have developed, by the way, Doctor Cipher. The extra set of hands will indeed help us greatly, but what I am mostly in need of is solutions. Things are becoming increasingly more difficult to handle than just a few extra bodies of staff can manage." 

_‘New procedures’_ was a bit of a stretch. Doctors these days were desperately grasping at straws, taking any new botchery as the most effective form of treatment. Unfortunately, the public favored ideas surrounding the silencing of those who were suffering over ideas of less invasive therapies. Society would much prefer vegetables to a husband who was addicted to pornography or a wife who was simply overwhelmed by her daily womanly duties. Oh no, these people were to be casted out of humanity and made into nothing more than quiet little robots. Hardly anyone believed rehabilitation in the mentally insane was achievable.

"And I am interested in sharing them with you. My hope is to provide the _solutions_ you need. Several institutes are filling every bed. There simply aren't enough people within the field to cope with supply and demand. Patients outweigh staff nine times out of ten, that I'm sure you can agree on."

"Oh, I completely agree." Ford responded, hoping it didn't sound entirely manufactured. He really did believe that, though to be honest, he was _incredibly_ shocked to hear it from Dr. Cipher's lips, considering the man’s status. That shared opinion was one of the many reasons the other doctors didn't like Stanford, and this felt like a very _so there_ moment for him; to have such a close associate to fall so nicely in line with. 

“Then I’m sure you can also agree that the management of patients here can be approached much differently.” Despite never having actually been to the facility, Bill took the lead in walking towards the elevators directly down the hall. Ford followed, not even seeming to register the clear change in who was leading who. "I teach what I see fit when I see a fitting moment. Which is why I plan to work extremely close with you, Dr. Pines, in order to give examples as we progress through each day. Which brings me to my next inquiry." Bill had reached the elevators and stopped abruptly as he was a few paces ahead of the other. Now came the first teaching moment of the day.

"Do you usually resort to sedation as a first solution for all your patients?"

"Oh, no." Ford declared, jogging up behind Bill. "Not a first solution, and not all of them. But I'm hardly capable of being in twenty places at once. I try my hardest to instill what gets done around here, but I can't control everything."

"No one truly can. Funny how life works out that way. Those who _want_ control have it. Those who _deserve_ control are far from obtaining it. However, what you can control- is your appearance. Your collar requires your attention."

That felt a little...backhanded, Ford couldn't help but muse, but he was sure he was overthinking it in desperation. His brain did that sometimes, ran ahead of him with assumptions when he was trying to impress someone. He quickly flattened out his collar, averting his eyes as his cheeks reddened slightly. Quickly moving off the topic of his appearance, Ford made a final comment as they called for and entered the lift. "God forbid this hospital is seized by the state. They're known to be brutal in places like this." 

* * *

Staff housing was on the upper floor along with personal offices, with more general offices and facilities on the bottom floors; for the most part, patients occupied the central levels, which meant they finished up at an awkward impasse. Bill had kept a rather straight face for the majority of the tour, seeming rather disinterested. But again, that could easily be viewed as professionalism, which seemed to become more evident after he had put on the white coat he had been carrying around earlier in the day.

"And that's about everything." Stanford nodded, dipping into one of the side hallways so they could be relatively out-of-the-way of all the commotion. "If you need anything else at all, please just let me know, I will try my utmost to be of service. I trust all proceedings going forward to you, Bill. I am of course entirely in your debt." 

After being given such high status and praise, the blond let a very charming smile fall upon his lips, cracking the indifferent expression he carried. "I'm very... _very_ glad to hear that.” Bill reached for the sleeve of his lab coat and tugged on it to straighten it in order to maintain his pristine appearance. As he then focused on the cuffs of his shirt beneath the coat, the physician seemed to have conjured yet another inquiry. “If you wouldn't mind my asking, I would like to know- do you truly believe in rehabilitation for each patient?" The manner in which he asked was nonchalant, although this was an extremely pressing question; especially now in this day and age. 

"I do." Ford affirmed. Was this answer a _sorry_ mistake? Maybe. He couldn't find it in himself to care, though maybe he might have if he hadn’t been so... _on edge_ recently. "I truly do. Maybe--" He bit his lip in careful thought. "Maybe not for each. But when it's possible, which I do think is more often than not--that is my goal." He folded his hands behind his back, straightening his posture. Bill’s full attention was on Ford now, the cuffs of sleeves abandoned halfway through the explanation. "Many here would not agree, and not everyone here is very fond of me because of my opinion. But...it is what I try to do, though I admit that every day that goes by it becomes harder." He laughed, though it was a bit stinted and awkward. "I do hope you somewhat feel the same, but--either way, we need more control around here. Whatever solutions you have, they'll be incredibly useful. I can assure you that."

The blond physician took a deep breath in as he analyzed what he had been told. "I have seen many different institutions and yet, I haven't met many who believe in healing those who need it. In fact- several believe in very much the opposite. I'd like to ask- what, ultimately, is your ‘goal’? You said you would like to achieve it. What is it, exactly? To heal those who need it? Maintain them? Or maybe just to have a bit more control? I am genuinely curious. You seem like a very...different individual, Mr. Pines." The title of ‘Doctor’ had been dropped rather suddenly. "Because, it seems to me- you have lost a majority of the control you have been given. About 90% of these patients have been restrained or sedated during our walk throughout the building.”

"I know, I know, things aren’t exactly up to par." Stanford stressed. "That's my fault, I don't--mean to be unkind. This is why I need your help, there's so much going o--" He was talked over before he could finish, simply pursing his lips as he tried to re-steady his thoughts and finish listening to what Bill had to say. 

“Either you have lost that control and aren't trying hard enough to take back your authority- or you are simply telling half truths and want to appear to be a kind hearted person with hope in each soul that comes through those doors and occupies a bed. So, which is it?" Very direct. That's how Bill spoke. Strict, authoritative-- like he knew what he was doing.

"I--" Stanford frowned as Bill became a bit more accusatory. He felt similar to a child getting scolded. His thoughts felt scattered, but somehow, he found a way to formulate a coherent notion. "I joined this position because I wanted to heal people. I'd like to think it's something I still believe in. I never quite asked for this much-- _authority_ , but I must say it's a bit of a relief to have it." That's what it was. A _relief_ . Not something he had hungered to get, but not something he was willing to let go, either. It had been given to him, and for that he was grateful. But now, he found himself questioning his motives and his current position within this hospital. It made the hairs on the back of his arms stand up as it had been clear that _Dr. Cipher_ had been awaiting a more _direct answer_ to his _direct question_. 

"I've lost control." He decided upon, because while perhaps less graceful, it was the true answer; he wanted to believe it was the true answer. "That's why you're here. I'm not going to do anything rash to take back authority, I'm not--going to be inhumane. I've called you here because I've run out of logical solutions, that is all."

That looked to be a reasonable answer, because Bill began to visibly back down. "A little humility is good for all of us. I strongly believe in that. You've taken that first step and have now admitted that things are falling apart under your supervision. I believe you called me right in time. In all honesty, you are even exhibiting signs of fatigue. You're overworking yourself." His tone became a bit less harsh, a bit more comforting. "However, I admire your compassion. You simply need to carry it out. You don't want to start _losing lives_ under your care."

"I--Oh." He answered softly. The brunet brushed some hair out of his eyes, shutting them tight against the stifling overhead light for just a moment. "If the other physicians work without my supervision, they are often inhumane. I need to be here for that, for the patients' sake. I--perhaps haven't been getting as much sleep as I should be. Maybe that will change, now that you're here."

“Perhaps.” Bill agreed. A quick change in subject now brought a new, chipper tone to the blond. "I would like to meet one of your more troubled patients before the day is through. I believe this to be a good teaching moment." 

Ford had been taken by surprise by that request but he wasn't going to refute or argue it. He was eager to do as much learning from Bill as possible. "Oh, yes, of course. Most of our more-- _troubled_ cases are on the fourth and fifth floors--I can check my roster and take you up there now."

* * *

Ford didn't put _too_ much thought into patient selection, but he didn't choose randomly, either. No-one with violent tendencies was an important one to begin with; of course Bill would become accustomed with everything soon enough (and probably already was), but Ford didn't want to scare him off before they had even begun. No, better to take the sympathetic approach, to play the patient-as-victim card. 

"I assume you would like me to go in with you?" The brunet physician offered as they had rounded the last corridor on the fourth floor. Ford was eager to see how Bill worked.

"Yes, at first. It would be good for a familiar face to be seen before a stranger’s.” Bill hummed smoothly as he had stopped directly in front of the chosen patient’s door. “What can you tell me about her?"

"Well." Ford mumbled, clearing his throat. Perhaps taking Bill here had been a bad idea; perhaps Bill meant something else when he said troubled, someone less helpless. Perhaps this was a bad impression, after all--he had too many racing thoughts about what Bill wanted and how best to show him that. "We don't have--conclusive proof, that's partially why she is still here, but--we are, or at least I am, of the belief that this patient is suffering from serious recoil from a traumatic event shortly before she was brought here, about a year ago. I don't--" He pressed his fingers to his temple. " _Know_ , what happened, but that is my working theory." He leaned against the wall adjacent to the door of where the female patient was being kept, now massaging the sides of his head. His stress was showing though. "We're trying to work with her, but she's in a manic state and won't often talk. Extreme depressive episodes, refusal to eat, verbal therapy is hardly ever an option..."

"And," those dual colored eyes looked from the door to Stanford, "would you consider her violent? To herself or others?"

Ford pursed his lips. "Not...frequently." This was the truth. "Sometimes." This, though shameful, was _also_ the truth. "Again, we are trying our hardest to minimize violence to and from our patients using...whatever steps are necessary." Because that was all they could do, right? To keep everyone safe? To save people from the horrors of what could be?

That was all Bill needed to know, apparently. "We'll go in, as I discussed. Then I simply want you to watch in order to better understand an approach I would like for you to take. After, I'll have a moment alone with her to better understand her needs as far as alternate treatment plans go." He nodded to the door then, signaling for the deadbolt to be unlocked. 

Ford fidgeted with the keys on his ring for a moment; there were a _lot_ of them there, one for patient rooms on every separate floor and then some for different staff utilities. He knew every one apart, though, and was able to locate it, sliding it in the door and pushing it open with his shoulder. 

Truth be told, the condition of the place could have been a _lot_ worse, especially with Bill's prior experience. But it also could have been a lot better. Bill waited patiently as the door was unlocked and opened, revealing the soul in front of them. The poor girl hadn't looked much older than around eighteen, possibly her very early twenties. But she didn't seem very perceptive to her environment, either. Most noticeably, it looked as if she didn't sleep. Ever. The fatigue that draped over her was so intense, in fact, it looked as if it pulled her towards the ground. She had been so slumped on that old, uncomfortable bed, it was hard to make out where she ended and where it began. The two took a moment to simply observe the poor girl before the blond actually took a couple steps inside of the small, dreary room. Then, and only then, did the two men's presence become something this frail girl noticed. This was a sign that in this exact moment, she had been on some form of sedative to keep her docile; her reaction time had been completely skewed and terribly slow.

There was a small moment of hesitating on her end before she seemed to move further back into the corner of her bed. However, Bill, like Ford may have expected, didn't hold out his hands to her or move quickly. Instead, he kept them where she could see them. Trust was ultimately fundamental. That was his lesson here. Upon observing that Bill had nothing in his hands that could harm her or place her under an involuntary sleep, she looked over to Ford. As did Bill. 

"You have to give her reason to trust you, Mr. Pines." The blond pointed out. 

Ford watched Bill work in a way that was largely analytical, though he couldn't hide the fact that he was impressed. _Very_ impressed. There was something so charming in the way Dr. Cipher moved and spoke and conducted himself, even around these patients; _especially_ around these patients. It was something he--well, not something Ford strove to be, per say, but more so something he desired to admire from afar. It took only a beat longer for him to finally register what was being asked of him-- and he mirrored the other, keeping his hands where they could easily be seen (though this was a bit more of a challenge for him due to his own...anomalies). 

Bill’s eyes were back on the patient as he slowly approached her. Soon enough, that charming smile reappeared in a dapper and smooth manner. He greeted the woman with a hand shake. She didn’t take it at first, but Bill decided to give her time to react, which she eventually did. 

"You must move at her pace." He commented to the side in Ford's direction. As most physicians refused to do, Bill got down to her level, bending at his knees, and introduced himself and what business he had in the facility. It was a proper greeting, though much slower than the usual, so that the woman before him would be able to catch every word. With the quiet exchange now over, Bill stood tall. 

“That will be all, Mr. Pines. If you could give us a moment in private…” Those dual colored eyes made a glance towards the door as a signal for the other physician to make his leave. 

Ford had done so, thinking deeply on what he had just observed, ultimately leaving Dr. Cipher alone as was instructed. His thoughts were absolutely racing, but he could barely be left alone with them. Hardly two minutes passed before Bill had exited the room and promptly shut the heavy door behind himself. A quick brush off of his clothing and he began to quiz Stanford thusly. "I'd like for you to elaborate what you learned from that exchange."

"Well..." He knew that he _should_ have been going over the exchange, because he knew this question was going to be asked--and yet his mind had wandered to the lull of Bill's voice, the gleam in his eyes, the way his lab coat fit on him, and---and oh, _oh_ , he was royally screwed, wasn't he?

"Well." He repeated awkwardly. "I suppose I--have been, maybe...rushing it a little. I should probably slow down when I'm talking to the patients, right? I shouldn't be so eager, that might be...cause for concern." His voice slowly died down, but his mind was trailing, even then.

Bill now made the effort for them to move from the door as Ford answered, taking the lead as he had once before. "Probably isn't a very good answer. You _will_ go slower.” 

Ford’s face fell, if only a little. All he wanted was to impress Bill, and he was beginning to feel like he'd failed already. "Alright--" He uttered, but it was obvious Bill wasn't done, and he fell silent, forcing himself to just walk and listen, to not over explain himself out of the hole like he so loved to do. 

“You have to give them time to process. Especially considering the fact the poor girl was on so much medication; her mind is tired, _delayed_. She's conscious, yes, but that is still a form of sedation. That goes for many of these patients. You must establish trust between yourself and the patient and allow for them to better process your words and actions. Otherwise, treatments come off more as a punishment than anything else." Bill’s voice sounded only slightly less harsh towards the end of his explanation, meeting Ford's gaze as they walked. He smiled in a much softer way; Softer than when he first arrived, or even when he approached the patient. 

It was easy, somehow, to relax around Bill, as if he was a natural solution to the amount of stress Ford had been feeling for weeks. Ford smiled back, bright and full of light. His eyes were soft and innocent and maybe a bit love struck, if you were observant. Bill was observant.

The blond eventually stopped walking a few corridors down and he stepped off to the side, Ford following suit. “I would like to ask a rather...bold question. It can be taken as an uncomfortable question to many, but I am genuinely curious of your response." 

“Of course, ask away.” Ford responded, nodding. Maybe he nodded a little too fast, a little too eagerly, but--well, he was eager to help Bill in any way he could, to learn from him, to _impress_ him.

"What are your thoughts on conversion therapies?"

The question took Stanford by surprise. His head tilted and his lips parted just slightly. He had to watch how he answered this one. Still, he wasn't going to lie, or brush this under the rug. He cleared his throat. "Not very positive." He muttered, pursing his lips; he didn't meet Bill's eyes, but he rarely met people's eyes when he talked to them. "If you mean..." Silence, then, to affirm Bill meant what he thought he meant, and then another throat clearing. "I don't believe in it, I mean. Not that it's--I just think there are better ways to...go about it." That was a stupid answer, dodgy as hell on his true thoughts on the matter--the matter not really referring to the therapy at all--but what could he say, at the end of the day? 

There wasn't even a beat of discomfort or pause before Bill began to speak again. "Such an innovative mind. You know, I'm sure you could do so much for these people if you shared your ideas. Sometimes, being outspoken is wonderful." Ford chuckled softly, Bill's little praise already bringing some color to his cheeks, but it was obvious he was averse to the idea of being outspoken. It wasn't his place, here, for a number of reasons. One wrong move could land you in some really hot water.

Bill continued on. "You say there are better ways to go about it. Have you thought of any? And- following that- how often have you participated in treating patients using conversion methods?" 

"Er." Ford folded his hands in front of him. He did have one idea, which he thought was pretty fantastic-- _Don't bring someone to an institution for being a homosexual in the first place_ \--but he wasn't going to bring it up here. He'd rather look idealistic than stupid. "No." He admitted, shaking his head, because as far as pragmatic solutions went, he was clearly in the dark. "I don't have better ideas, and I have had to--resort to unsavory ones, sometimes." Oh, that was the worst of it. Knowing how easily the roles could reverse if he ran his mouth too much. It chilled him straight to the bone, and though avoidance was cowardice, he stayed as far away as he could from it as often as possible.

"You find it wrong, entirely, don't you? The concept of treating someone with same-sex attractions?" Bill pushed on. That seemed to be a pattern; this man liked to _push_. "I can feel that's what you're practically aching to say.”

Ford bit his lip, looked left and right, but then nodded, vigorously. "Yes." He said, barely over a whisper. "Yes, I do, but--"

“So you are against what’s written in textbooks and what is taught through lectures.” It was almost as if Bill took another step forward to invade Ford's personal space, leaving him no room to feel comfortable.

"I--" Ford stammered, shoulders sagging before speaking in a quiet tone. "I'm trying to do what's best for the patients, and for the field, and--I've never really felt like there's been anyone here who could do that like I could. But...." He shook his head aimlessly. "But yes. Yes, it is a lot of pressure. I don't know how much lon--"

There was a sudden rush or orderlies and nurses down the hall from which the two men had come from not but ten minutes ago. There was a pause and the blond looked back at the rushing crowd of staff then back to Ford with a slightly furrowed brow.

Stanford turned, suddenly, looking from the staff, to Bill, back to the staff, and waving an orderly down. The orderly pulled him aside and spoke to him in a very hushed, discreet manner, and Ford--

Well. Ford didn't react. Not at all, not more than a curt nod. But he'd gone white as a sheet, muscles reflexively locking, as if sent into shock by the news itself.

The staff member then informed Bill of what had happened, earning a similar nod to Ford’s, before the two were left alone once again. Stanford was silent as the dead, staring blankly at the wall. Bill adjusted his coat and sucked in a deep breath to offer wise words. "The hardest realization, I think, is knowing there may be some too far gone for proper rehabilitation. It was clear that all the poor girl held was pain. She, unfortunately, took a gruesome way out." They had only seen her mere minutes ago and a life had slipped by so easily.

Less than twenty-four hours and there had already been a patient suicide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter but we had to include quite a bit!


	3. All Eyes on You, Stanford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, a small TW for the minor description of death/suicide/and blood.
> 
> Playlist for this work- https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2g1hA9N8RZaB56Elu5mvO6?si=IoCkUa_USJGgAUnj6MzJJg
> 
> My platform on ALL social media: @/Omnixi  
> Mack's platforms:  
> insta/tiktok- @/mack9.duracell  
> tumblr- mack9duracell  
> a03- @/mackdizzy

The most apparent sight one couldn’t help but notice within the patient’s room was the pool of crimson surrounding a limp body that had quickly run cold. Staff worked vigorously around the bled-out woman; a letter opener was the weapon of demise, draping one of the linens from the bed over the deceased female. At the door, Bill stood with his hands in his coat pockets alongside his colleague, who looked just as pale as the corpse before them. 

“Where had she even retrieved a letter opener?” Bill asked, seemingly keeping relatively calm. “These kinds of items are kept out of reach of patients, correct?”

An orderly, who had picked up the letter opener with a small cloth only moments ago, gained a slightly grim expression. The gentleman in all white studied the tool’s sharp length before looking back up to meet both Bill’s and Ford’s gaze. “Well, that’s true. But uh, this specific opener was in a place only _one_ person could use it.” He almost looked _sorry_ as he brought the letter opener over to the two attending physicians to examine. On the end of the intricate design of the blade were the engraved initials of _S.P._ **_Stanford Pines_**.

"This is the very same that was on your desk, wasn't it?" The orderly had asked Ford, concern seemingly evident on his face. 

Ford’s eyes widened, his mouth fell open, and he looked over the evidence to Bill and back and forth curiously, giving a perplexed smile. "No, that's not--that's not mine." He muttered, shaking his head. He knew deep down that he didn’t sound entirely coherent, consternation still overtaking him. However, upon further observation, he concluded it was, indeed, his. "I would never take something like that out of my office, not here." Complete disbelief; bewilderment; no words could even begin to describe the range of emotion he was currently feeling.

Bill had said nothing over the matter thus far but studied Ford's face upon seeing the evidence. Perhaps he had been attempting to piece this whole ordeal together, too. That was until he felt the need to question, as any sane person would rightfully do. "You don't let patients into your office, correct? And if you spend most of your time in there- there wouldn't be any other sort of chance for anyone else to take it and deliver it here. Which means...you, Stanford," Bill using his first name made him feel a bit more guilty, though Bill didn't sound angry, only concerned and a bit confused; as he most definitely had a right to be, "-must have had the letter opener on your person while visiting with this patient at some point in time. I don't recall seeing an opener on your desk during our tour, now that I think of it."

Ford's face fell further into a place between confusion and sadness as the pieces started clicking together; well, some of them did, but the more clarity he got, the more _confused_ it made him. He felt…. _muddled_ , and though he would never say this out loud, maybe starting to doubt his own sanity.

"O--okay." He said gently, finally, holding his hands up in a place of complacency. "I see how this looks. No, I don't let patients into my office. I don't think I ever have." Don't _think_. He would hate to call it deliberate wording, but it was. "I don't--I don't _remember_ ever taking it out of my office, I don't know why I ever would, but....possibly." He buried his hands in his pockets now, eyes fixing on the floor. He felt too drained to cry. No doubt he would later, but here he felt small, insignificant, _insufficient_ in front of Bill. 

"It must have been--a long time ago if you don't remember seeing it, Dr. Cipher. I can't remember the last time I saw it." He thought he saw it this morning, but--maybe that was just another way his brain was playing tricks on him.

A much more apprehensive face fell over the blond, and there was a brief pause in silence as the other staff members that were tending to the scene looked between one another, then back to Bill and then Ford. Finally, that _painful_ silence had broken. 

"Take a walk with me, Stanford." Bill stated softly, taking the lead away from the crime. Ford conceded immediately, figuring he expected him to follow, slipping out of the room. He didn't know what to do. Apologize? Reason? Somehow, he was shocked into silence, red-cheeked, and starting to hyperventilate softly once he was out of the room as if it was all finally catching up with him. 

As the two walked, Bill began to speak in a serious and inquisitive tone. "You seem to have a difficult time recalling certain events as of late.”

"Sorry." Ford uttered in a breaking tone, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth. Sorry for what, exactly, he had no idea. Everything, most likely, though it seemed Bill disregarded the small apology as he continued.

“You show obvious confusion, which is a concern in and of itself. Perhaps, you have worked yourself too much lately. You've shared your worries and stresses with me today, and I'm only here to relieve that stress. So, maybe you should take the rest of the evening to... _relax_. Take time for yourself. I'll resume charge over the institute for the night." Bill had halted their little walk once they were closer to the hall’s end, near the staff elevator.

"Maybe--maybe I have worked a bit too extensively." Inside Ford’s coat pockets, he clenched at the fabric, shutting his eyes tight as he tried to steady his breathing. "Yes, yes, time to recover would do me well. That would mean a lot to me. I think it's just--" He breathed out steadily, brushing his curls away from his eyes. "This is a lot to process. It's... _unsettling_.” 

Bill shook his head, his own hands finding their way back into his pockets. "Don't worry yourself. It will all be taken care of. We all have moments of immense stress. And you should know better than others the effects of stress on a tired mind. One evening will at least get you the time you need.”

Stanford nodded, composing himself more and more. His hands eventually returned to their position behind his back, a single nod being breached. "One evening is all I'll need, I can assure you." He closed his eyes, pinching above his nose. Even sorting through what needed to be done for the evening was troubling to muster an answer to. "Everything you need to know should be in the daily file for today. It's in the desk in my office, top right drawer." He was glad, then, that he did the daily files. They would be a useful guide for Bill for the rest of the night--this little break was all he needed. He would be sure of that.

Though it was a silly belief, the thought that he really might _need_ that help was aided by someone who was _actually_ there to help him. And besides, he liked Bill, and he wanted him around as much as possible, no matter what that took.

"What's mine is yours around the facility. Please let anyone who tries to prohibit you otherwise know of my instruction. Oh--the master keyring-” The brunet reached into his pocket to pull free the ring of jingling, clanking keys of all shapes and sizes. Without a thought of doubt or hesitation, it had been handed over to Dr. Cipher; Bill pocketed it rather quickly. “That should get you anywhere you need to go. Feel free to let yourself into my office to retrieve the itinerary for tonight.” Ford would be retiring to his room, which looked very similar to Bill's, if just slightly larger and with a somewhat different color scheme; more reds, fewer yellows, but otherwise pretty much the same. Elaborate, upper-ended, surely. He hadn’t resided at the hospital frequently, but he had this housing space available to him for the days he worked several night shifts in a row.

"Thank you. I'll have everything under control.” Bill assured. He was such a caring individual, taking on such an extensive responsibility. Ford trusted him with everything. 

"I know you will." He answered in affirmation. Bill would take care of everything-- _that_ he was sure of. And by tomorrow, he would be _fine_ and ready to retake control. They would be partners, and the hospital would improve tenfold. He just needed rest right now.

* * *

"Huh--wha?"

That was Ford's brilliant response to a sudden ear-shattering scream the next morning. The doctor tossed the covers aside and sat up to look over to the clock. _10:00 A.M._ How had he even managed to sleep this long? He couldn’t waste any more time.

His hair was a mess, and his clothes were askew, having dressed rather quickly at the echoing sound of commotion from the lower levels. He didn't look great, but he only had one thing on his mind; finding Bill. However, something caught his eye as he was about to rush to the door—The brunet paused and glanced back to the nightstand, spotting the master key ring resting atop it. 

_Odd, Bill should have had these_ …

Oh well, no time to think about it now. Stanford grabbed the keys and stuffed them in his pocket before rushing down to the main level. 

Ford had been trained to react calmly to situations, and it was rare he found himself surprised...but this was new territory. What he saw upon reaching the main floor was beyond shocking.

The hospital was in absolute chaos.

Doors were swung open and left unlocked as orderlies and nurses were doing their best to dart around and grab as many patients as they possibly could from the halls. Staff gathered and placed inmates back in their rooms as screaming, yelling, crying, and giggling all echoed off the walls as a signal of several fierce fights. In the middle of all of it was...him. Bill, for once, looked frazzled. Even his perfect and flawless hair was out of place from running around in haphazard panic.

"What's going on?" Ford stammered when he eventually gathered himself enough to approach the blond. He wasn’t angry with Bill, just solicitous. Maybe the other patients had been set off by the suicide. It was a possibility, right? "Have you had to deal with all this by yourself?" He reflected, trying to sound empathetic. "I'm here to help; tell me what to do." It was almost comical how quickly he had surrendered his help, but he was feeling _good_ after a night of rest, and he trusted Bill with everything in him. 

Bill looked exceedingly disorganized, but it was clear he was doing his best. Upon seeing the other barrel towards him, Bill handed off a patient to an orderly to escort back into their room. A somewhat stern look flashed over the blond's features, and Ford grimaced; it was clear he was ready to scold. "What’s going o-- Stanford! This is _your_ doing! Yes, I've been doing this _all by myself,_ and frankly, I am at my wit’s end, and it has only been a day! This morning, at 6 A.M. sharp, you approached me and asked for the keys back to start your shift. At that point, all was fine and under control! I left the grounds for a mere hour, and suddenly every lunatic had flooded the halls! It's been hours of trying to organize it all! What on earth were you thinking, and where the **_hell_ **have you been!?" 

"....What?"

There were a few moments of Ford only... _standing_ there, staring at Bill in abject shock, before he shook his head slowly. "I...don't..." His voice failed to gain volume, leaving it a pitiful whisper. He felt anxiety rise in him like a bubble, felt it finally burst, his chest constricting until he couldn't breathe anymore. People were in absolute ruins…people were missing, and it was all his fault. "Give me a moment." He choked out, quickly excusing himself and stepping into an isolated hallway, putting a hand to his chest.

He was too drained to cry, too in shock to breathe, too frazzled to think. He had to do something before more people got hurt. Otherwise, the spiral of chaos would only increase.

He composed himself after several intense moments of thought and turned back down the hall. Once he saw Bill again, he practically grabbed him, his eyes wide with terror, and tugged him away into that secluded little hallway.

Bill had merely tensed up as Ford grabbed him so abruptly, his feet even _dragging_ a bit in a confused fight. Soon enough, though, he seemed to have caught his footing.

They were alone, now, and only once Ford had been sure they were, did he let go of the doctor. He could say what needed to be said. He could _trust_ Bill with this information.

There was a look of scattered bewilderment upon the blond’s face, prompting Ford to speak. "I can't do this anymore." Stanford spat out, confessing all in an instant. "I'm not fit for this. This job--it's pushed me past my limits, Dr. Cipher. I'm--frankly, I'm beginning to feel like I'm no better than these patients. I'm hardly in the right frame of mind to orchestrate them." He clutched his hands into tight fists, fingernails digging into his palms. "I'd like to--" He took a shaky breath. "To relinquish the facility to you, Bill, if you're up for it. I can't stay here anymore. I need to go home; I fear I'm losing my mind."

It was obviously a lot to process because Bill took a long moment of silent staring before finally sucking in a deep breath and straightening his posture. He ran his fingers through his hair to fix those unruly golden locks and calmly brushed off his clothing to smooth out any wrinkles. After he was sure his appearance was restored, his eyes fixed themselves to meet Ford’s panicked gaze directly. "I completely understand. Though, if you fear insanity...perhaps _home_ isn't where you should retire." His tone relayed caution, _worry_.

Ford knew what Bill was going to say before he said it, and the idea created a terrible sense of unease in him. Still, Bill was here now. Bill could run this place far better than he could, and things could return to the way he ran them before, _before_ the overpopulation and the stress started slipping his morals. 

Dr. Cipher could save the hospital, and probably him, too.

"It may be that it’s time you get your own help...and reside _here_ ,” 

Ford’s apprehension grew. Maybe that was something to feel guilty about, the thought that he wouldn't be adequately treated here. _Neglected_.

“...As a patient."

_Oh, God._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not super duper proud of this chapter; we ran into some things we couldn't figure out how to fix. But hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. We're getting into some deep territory now :D


	4. Lock and Key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is time relevant anymore?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist for this work- https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2g1hA9N8RZaB56Elu5mvO6?si=IoCkUa_USJGgAUnj6MzJJg
> 
> My platform on ALL social media: @/Omnixi  
> Mack's platforms:  
> insta/tiktok- @/mack9.duracell  
> tumblr- mack9duracell  
> a03- @mackdizzy

Dr. Cipher had given Stanford some time to think it over during the day. It would be a tough decision, no doubt. Nonetheless, Ford followed Bill’s instructions through the remainder of the day, refusing to take the day off. He had felt responsible for all of this chaos; he might as well contribute to fixing it to the best of his abilities. Ford did as he was told willingly, though definitely with some degree of hastened awkwardness. He admired Bill's professionalism, even in the face of these hardships; it wasn't something he thought he would be able to muster at a time like this.

At the end of the day, Ford went back to his room and thought about the blond physician’s proposition. Bill was right--he was hardly professional. Maybe he  _ shouldn't _ go home. Ford trusted Bill with the facility, sure, but--perhaps he,  _ himself _ , wasn't to be trusted. If he was doing things like letting patients roam free without even remembering it, acting crazy without any touch on reality, maybe Bill was right.

He'd made up his decision about it that night, finding Bill's room and knocking on the door gently. This should be about the time he was off unless things had gone sorely wrong, but with Bill in charge, Ford doubted they had. It was very late, and being alone all day was  _ already _ starting to get to him. "Doctor Cipher?" The brunet spoke from behind the closed doors, rocking back and forth on his heels. "It's Stanford, I--I think you were right, earlier. I don't think I should be going home."

It had seemed like only a moment before the door opened.

_ Uh-oh. _

Ford’s mouth hung open ever-so-slightly, parted lips and a soft huff of breath and toes that curled below him. 

The wooden door had only revealed a sight that...probably wasn’t healthy for Ford to focus on. There Bill stood, wearing simple cotton pajamas, his shirt having half the buttons undone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The main focus of Stanford’s attention, however, landed on Bill’s chest, the majority of it uncovered. Dual-colored eyes stared Ford down, seemingly pinning him in his place before a rather hasty invitation was offered. 

"Why don't you come in?" Bill side-stepped out of the way and the door was opened further-- a welcoming gesture. Ford stepped into the room at the offer, and immediately, he couldn’t help but feel somewhat stuffy. Maybe that was with the heat cranked to combat the October chill, but he undid the top button of his collar anyway, if just to keep out some of the stifling heat. 

"Forgive the disorganization,” Bill said, shutting the door behind his colleague as he then made haste to pick up loose papers around the desk and compile them into a closed folder, “I've been making notes and revising previous ones." When he finished, he stood straighter and ran his hand through his blond hair to push it back and out of the way. "Sit down for a moment." Though Ford was sure it was meant to be an offer, it seemed just a bit more... _ demanding  _ in nature. Still, the request was followed quickly. 

"No, no, it's quite alright," Ford said, sitting down in the chair at Bill's desk, turning it to face him. Bill sat down on the edge of his bed to give Ford his attention as they spoke. "I'm sure it's vitally productive for the facility. Your work so far has been phenomenal." His legs shook as he sat, and his palms trembled. He wasn't well-- physically, mentally, any of it, and this much was starting to become evident. 

Bill took in a deep breath before breaking the brief silence. "So...you've decided upon admitting yourself? Or perhaps you plan to stay for work?” There was silence even after Bill asked the question, as Ford folded his hands in and out and back in again. 

"...The first." The brunet finally declared softly, and then immediately began overexplaining, as he had always done. "I don't--I don't think I'm entirely well, Bill. I'd like to believe that won't be the case forever." 

Bill sat up a bit more. "Well"-- a heavy sigh left him--"I guarantee you will be directly under my care. And  _ only _ ...my care." Bill’s tone changed towards the end of his sentence, making it seem just a bit intimidating. But it was so smooth, and it hadn't wholly mattered. It was a bit sultry, though it was also hard to tell if that was intentional or not.

"Thank you." Ford said softly in return, finding that absolutely nothing short of a relief. He shouldn't--oh, _ he shouldn't have _ \--but it really did make him feel so much better, the thought that nobody else would be interfering. Bill would take care of him. He knew what he was doing. That thought put his worries at ease and soothed him other ways, too. Maybe he'd always needed to feel taken care of; maybe that was twisted. Perhaps he shouldn't think about it for too long. 

"Stanford, if you don't mind my asking..." The physician now stood and moved over to the chair, practically looking down on the other, "What specifically makes you feel like you are better off becoming a patient here? I full-heartedly agree, but I am curious about your thought process."

"I--I don't think I'm well." Ford elaborated, though it was apparent the question set him on edge. "The stress on me is immense, and I'm beginning to feel like I'm cracking. I--" He shook his head aimlessly. "What you said I did this morning, I have no recollection of it. I don't remember ever taking the letter opener out of my office, either. If my sanity is slipping, I need to fix it. I may be diseased."

The silence that surrounded them then lasted far,  _ far  _ too long, and it was practically stifling. Finally, though, Bill gave one affirming nod. “It’s good to admit you need help.” He finally stated.

Now the blond turned on his heel with authority, clearly having a plan and purpose. "Then tomorrow, first thing, you will be admitted as a patient. I suggest you get the paperwork filled out and release forms signed tonight. Then we will evaluate tomorrow and come up with a treatment plan. Though, we will need to meet with The Dean to better explain the situation to him.”

Ford gave an agreeable nod. "I'll have to go down to my office to get the necessary documents, but I’ll return after." It was bizarre, the way he was laying his actions by Bill, asking for permission to do anything. But that was just the way it was, now. Parts of this process would get messy, but Bill was here, and things would get better. 

“I will set up a meeting with him as soon as I can..." Bill continued, pausing as he picked up the book again, beautifully dual-colored eyes now moving back to Ford. "Can...I trust that you'll be safe for the night at least?" 

"Of course." Ford’s expression held some empathy, though it was most likely a result of Bill's kindness towards him. Bill was a lot.... _ kinder _ than anyone Ford had worked with or been around in what must have been years, now. There was a reason he was willing to relinquish power so easily; Bill made him feel incredibly at ease.

"I don't exactly want you alone,” Bill confirmed. “Perhaps it would be best if you stayed with me for the evening. Just as a safety precaution." 

"Oh. O...of course." Ford looked visibly nervous at that; a little embarrassed, a little something else, too. The idea of him and Bill sharing such an intimate space so late at night? He knew he shouldn't be having these thoughts, but just spending the night in the same room as Bill sent his heart into a tizzy. 

* * *

Ford managed to take a minute or two to find his way to his office, thumbing through the filing cabinets to locate the required admissions forms. Shortly after retrieving the documents, he made his way into his own room and changed into his pajamas-- which were much more conservatively buttoned. However, he couldn't say in honesty that he would ever want Bill to follow the demure action. 

Was he scared? Yes, of course. A little. But as much as Ford tried to take care of his patients, he knew that Bill would do even better. He knew that there was nothing to be afraid of, that he would be safe under his care. That thought alone was enough to bring him comfort even in a room that was not his own. Bill had offered up his bed so Stanford could have a comfortable place to sleep, though he never once joined the brunet throughout the night. Instead, he was seated at the desk, scribbling away in that journal. 

* * *

Escorting Stanford through the halls, Bill carried himself in a much more  _ superior _ way, Ford couldn’t help but note. He was professional, less friendly, and much quieter. The blond had the paperwork with him in a manilla folder, hugging the documents close to his body as he navigated the halls with the anxiety-riddled individual beside him. Dr. Cipher looked nice and neat for the day, those nicely pressed clothes hugging him perfectly and the lab coat framing and flowing around his figure just right. Intimidating.

Ford had been nervous since he'd woken up. He'd dressed as nicely as he possibly could without being in uniform; he knew he was unwell, but he didn't want to be seen as unprofessional. He wanted to be civilized—someone to be trusted. The meeting with the Dean should go well enough, Ford mused; Bill would do the talking, and he was sure his paperwork had been adequately filled out. Self-admission was always a much easier process: fewer legal, financial, and physical hoops to go through. 

Stepping into Dr. Lottle’s office for their little group meeting, Bill had Stanford sit in the chair across the desk as he, himself, stood and spoke to the man in charge, handing the completed admissions paperwork over to the Dean. "Mr. Pines has come to the conclusion that he may be better off resigning his position to me temporarily while he recovers here as a patient...We believe his mind is tired, and he's exhibiting signs of being overworked." 

Paperwork now in hand, Dr. Lottle gave it a good look over, remaining silent as his piercing gaze glided over the neat penmanship. However, Bill gave a slight side glance to Ford, carrying a very stern expression as he did so. It set Ford a bit on edge; what was all  _ that  _ for? Then, Bill’s eyes were back to focusing on the task at hand, and he began to speak once more. "I also have a concern of Stanford showing homosexual tendencies." It had been said out of fact--rather, in a way that insinuated he was  _ concerned.  _

Suddenly, it was as if all had gone silent, and the uneasy beat of Ford’s heart had temporarily halted-- like the dying echo of a silver pin on tile leaving room for only thoughts. "Wh--what?" Ford's voice dropped to hardly anything more than a whisper. Yes, again, Bill sounded concerned, but--what?  _ What? "What?" _ He stammered, sounding surprised as any, but the look on his face made the truth all too clear; shock, disbelief, hurt. Betrayal.

There was obvious concern from Dr. Lottle; Rightfully so. One of his top staff members had suddenly fallen ill with a disease of the mind, hindering his ability to continue working. It had happened before, it wasn’t uncommon, but he was understandably taken aback. “My, I knew there was a concern to be had over recent incidents within the facility...but homosexuality, Stanford? It would only be right of me to approve your admission.” A pen was plucked from the desk, and the eerie yet familiar sound of the ballpoint tip scratching against paper sounded throughout the office, ultimately sealing Stanford Pines’ doom. 

Bill seemed quick to take the signed documents back into his grasp, not waiting a beat longer. He was most definitely efficient and knew how to manage time...that’s why he was the best, after all. “I’ll see to it that the paperwork gets filed accordingly. Thank you so much for your time, Dr. Lottle.” 

Ford didn't say anything after that, not for a long time. Bill had only done what he thought was right, that he knew. It wasn't the other Doctor's fault. Still, it felt awful. Maybe not even knowing he'd trusted Bill, more so that--he'd been obvious about it. Had he? Had everyone known for so long? The Dean seemed surprised enough. He wasn't sure. 

From there, the blond escorted Ford to one of the many patient rooms. It was within a wing that didn’t house severely disturbed patients, but they clearly weren't well. On the bolted bed lay a pair of neatly folded and newly washed patient scrubs. The sheets were thin and tight over the mattress--all white since it was easier to get the blood and other substances out of. Once Ford was in his little cell, Bill sucked in a deep breath. "I have started to formulate a treatment plan for you. But I need to go over it and revise it a bit. And," he looked a bit more sympathetic, "I promised I would take care of you. I meant that." 

The cell looked clean enough, but again, Ford wasn't entirely scared of those sorts of things, not when Bill was here. The fact that he'd already started on a treatment plan, for instance, made him feel incredibly at ease. He was feeling so at ease that he almost wanted to bring up what was earlier said, but he didn't. He couldn't. He just nodded, sitting down and staring at the floorboards like they were the most interesting thing to ever happen to this hospital. "Thank you, Doctor Cipher."

Formalities were more appropriate now, though he missed saying that name already.

"Of course. I only got to work alongside you for a short time. But rest assured, I did enjoy doing so. Now, it's my turn to show you more of what I know. My methods-- are effective. Difficult to endure...but effective.” A smirk crossed Bill’s lips, staying firm in its place. “All I need to know, Mr. Pines, is….do you trust me?" 

Everything Bill said was ever so _slightly_ worrying, to the point where if it was anyone else, he would have been truthfully concerned for his well-being here. The smirking, the _difficult to endure but effective_ \--all of it. But he focused on the _effective_ part for now-- because this was Bill.

He nodded sincerely, hands folding in beneath him. His fingernails dug into his palms, sharply enough to cause pain, and it was oddly clarifying, though he hardly knew why. "Of course I trust you, Bi--Doctor Cipher." He confessed without any difficulty, head tilting on an angle. He needed to remind himself that they were no longer equals. The correction of the title was embarrassing but needed.

"I trust you completely. I know--I  _ trust _ that whatever you must do, it will be effective." In some twisted, gruesome, very dark part of him, Ford had a desperation to be taken care of. He always had. It was selfish and prideful, but it was lonely and scared, too. It was there, little as he knew about it, and its presence made the red flags invisible.

"Glad to hear it." Bill shifted a bit on his feet to straighten his posture perfectly. "Stanford." He now started with a reminding tone. His dual-colored eyes flashed to the scrubs that remain folded on the bed, then back in Ford’s direction. "I need to confiscate your...personal...items. If you wouldn't mind."

In other words, _ strip _ . 

Suddenly, Ford’s face was red as a tomato again. His whole body, actually, and he felt hot and sweaty all over. Still, there was no time to hesitate; he stripped down all the way, and it felt like a million eyes were on him. His hands shook as he folded his clothes for Bill, and it was apparent that this was more than usual nerves. He felt hot,  _ uncomfortable _ . He felt like his skin was too tight for his body. He had only felt better again once he was re-dressed in the scrubs, a soft sigh escaping his lips. He sat on the edge of his bed and curled his toes, now visible in his bare feet instead of behind socks and dress shoes.

Collecting Stanford's clothing, Bill now gave a softer, less sharp smile. "Thank you." Now, Ford could tell before it even happened, came  _ the topic _ . "Mr. Pines, I never got the chance to tell you- but I also strongly believe that conversion therapies are... ineffective. From what I have studied, there hasn't been one to work permanently. Not yet, anyway. You stated you believed it to be wrong...you feel as though it isn't a disease. Correct?" 

Even though he saw it coming, Bill’s exact question threw Ford.... _ wildly _ off guard, especially considering what had transpired. The floorboards were once again the most interesting thing ever known to man for a few seconds, or at least, he certainly stared them down like they were. It was _ many _ a moment of intrepid silence before he spoke again, eventually, soft and delicate.

"No." He said, eventually. "And that--comes from a point of study, not a point of--" He sucked in a breath through his teeth. It was obvious he was showing some tremendous emotional restraint; he seemed on the verge of breaking down entirely. "Anything else. I--um. I--I think, I--We--One thing I--Because I--" He couldn't get a coherent thought out.  _ Focus, Stanford _ . "I think people can be very inhumane." He decided on eventually, though his gaze had only moved very slightly. He was looking at Bill's shoes, now. "Regardless of--disease or, or not, I think they're ineffective and unnecessary. That's--that's where I still stand on the matter."

Bill seemed attentive to listening, despite the lengthy effort it took for Ford to spew out a coherent thought. “I can respect that. You are human, Stanford. And as a human, you show empathy and sympathy for fellow humankind. No matter the circumstance. Regardless, it is still something that needs to be addressed. If it can't be proven as an incurable disease, then only then will we really know if we should stop treating it. However, we still don't know for sure--There are a few things I would like to try. I only ask you try to work with me on them. And another thing," This...this was an afterthought. Bill had even paused a moment to let his expression grow a bit more serious. "Don't try to be your own caretaker. Don't diagnose yourself, or at the very least-- try not to. Leave that all to me. If you psychoanalyze yourself, we won't be getting anywhere."

Suddenly, Stanford was starting to worry about some of the things Bill was saying--and yet, he just said he believed the treatments used in the past were _ ineffective _ . And he called him  _ empathetic _ , and he called that  _ human _ , and that was a good thing, right? In Bill's eyes? It had to be; otherwise, why would he have brought it up? To exploit or mock him? No, that was--Silly.

"Yes, of course, I'll work with you." He eventually decided on it for that reason, though it did take a few moments longer than his simple affirmation of trust had before. He listened deeply to what Bill was telling him; he didn't really understand it, not yet, but Ford thought he understood the motivation behind it, at least. He was fussy and tended to over-explain things. He would have the wrong intentions. Bill simply knew what was best for him.

Bill now gave one final nod, and as soon as he’d said everything he wanted to, he turned and made a move to hold to the room’s door handle so he could take his leave. "I'll have a schedule made up for you within the next hour or so. In the meantime, do your best to relax." With that, the male had left, the door closing with a heavy  _ click. _

He was alone now. Ford did try to relax, but it was just him and his thoughts, which was...unsettling. The sleeves weren't long enough to tug on, so he ran his nails along his arms instead, leaving tiny, barely-there scratches against the flesh. Then he picked on a few of the loose threads on his pants. Mostly he thought, though, on what Bill had planned for him. He took this time (what time was it, even? There was no clock here) to slowly start to  _ stress _ about Bill, gradually, more and more.

* * *

With the door shut, Bill’s expression dropped. His lips curved to a resting, subtle smirk. The blond had taken his stroll down the hall now, his strides much more confident than before. Passing a cleaning cart one of the orderlies had left in the hallway while cleaning out a patient room, Bill dumped Ford's clothing in the garbage receptacle. 

It wasn't like ol’ Sixer would be needing them again anytime soon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who is he?


	5. Spark of Sanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is an illusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist for this work- https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2g1hA9N8RZaB56Elu5mvO6?si=IoCkUa_USJGgAUnj6MzJJg
> 
> My platform on ALL social media: @/Omnixi  
> Mack's platforms:  
> insta/tiktok- @/mack9.duracell  
> tumblr- mack9duracell  
> a03- @/mackdizzy

Stanford Pines felt like he had been in this room for an eternity. Had it really only been an hour? Maybe he was going senile. He'd started to suspect this already, but this was just another confirmation of the awful reality; he’d spent the past fifteen minutes or so pacing if only to keep busy, but it had hardly done him any good. What time was it? He needed to find a place with windows. It had to be afternoon by now, didn't it?

Suddenly, without so much as a knock, the key turned in the deadbolt, and the door painfully creaked open. The noise was similar to that of nails against a blackboard or a newborn crying through the dead of night; obnoxious, painfully so, but it was a  _ noise _ . It did its job in capturing Stanford’s attention as the anxiously awaiting brunet wrinkled his nose in a cringe of slight annoyance and desperation. The eerie creak had effectively broken the silence, and there stood Bill, an orderly accompanying him.

"I took longer than I intended. I apologize for that," as Bill spoke, the orderly moved into the room silently to get Stanford to his feet.

The thought that Bill had taken longer than an hour was--comforting...but a little unsettling, too.

"This evening, before you eat, I would like to start the first session in one of the few treatments I have planned for you. After which, you will be given time to... _ gather _ yourself in the day room with other patients during mealtime. Please come with me." 

It wasn't like Ford had much of a choice, now that the orderly was already pulling him along, hand underneath the male's upper arm. Bill turned to lead the way but seemingly picked up on the aggressive and rough treatment quickly, so he had halted to correct the staff member’s behavior. “Do be a bit gentler; the man isn't a rag doll." The blond told the orderly, who immediately loosened his grip. 

"Sorry, sir." Came the compliant response. 

Ford was grateful to have anyone touching him at all after what seemed like years in his own head, but this sensation was  _ rough _ , and Ford couldn't say he appreciated it. He was grateful when Bill finally noticed; he never would've said anything, but he was thrilled Bill was continuing to look out for him. It put him at ease.

A few more twists and turns, and Bill entered a hall with several double doors: treatment rooms. Ford had been so at ease from Bill’s previous comfort that he had hardly noticed the corridor they had turned down, but it was a hall he was all too familiar with and practiced in regularly, despite his better intentions. In fact, he was made to feel similar to the likes of a monster every time he was to bring a patient down this wing. The ex-doctor wasn’t down here nearly as often as some of his colleagues, but he wasn’t innocent and clean of all the botchery behind these doors. Toes were now curling against rough stone instead of clean linoleum; he wanted to ask,  _ Why are we here? _ But it felt wrong with someone else still accompanying them, so he just kept his eyes on the floor. 

Hydrotherapy, surgery, bathing rooms, but at the very end--double doors a bit larger than the rest. Above, the plaque read-

**_Electroconvulsive Therapy_ **

Pushing past the doors, Bill flipped a switch that triggered the fluorescents to flicker and hum to life. It only brought a bit more light to the darkened, muggy room.

In the center of the room was a metal table- a gurney- with a thin mattress and those same tight, white sheets which were distributed to every patient cell; the restraints were a bit more extensive than the ones within patient rooms. Next to this table, an electrical machine- a little black box, with several dials and switches- sat. Accompanying that was a silver rolling tray that held a metal dish with a thick, clear, goo, folded white rags, tongue depressors, and a rubber biting guard. 

Without so much as an explanation from one former colleague to another, Ford was escorted to the locked gurney and helped into a lying position. Meanwhile, Bill moved around the man to that tray. His silhouette was the only thing that could be seen from where Stanford was lying with that bright fluorescent light shining directly on his face. Stanford wanted to say something--anything--, but there was absolutely no hesitation for the orderly as he began restraining him at the wrists and ankles.

Panic was setting in rather quickly, now. "Wait--what are we doing?" Ford finally announced, not out of some predisposed thought process but out of sheer instinct. This was a rhetorical question-- he knew exactly what they were doing; it had just taken him by immense surprise. 

And a bit of fear.

He was officially beginning to feel frightened.

He knew what the restraints were for--not necessarily in case he tried to run off--but he still couldn't help but feel a bit fettered by the whole thing. He folded his fingers in and out of his palms and flexed his toes (nervous habits again), granting him what little mobility he had. Granted, Ford had never been incredibly good at sitting still.

Bill had given a wave of his hand, effectively dismissing the orderly. A bit unorthodox, sure, as there were usually nurses or at least one other staff member to accompany the attending physician for these sorts of procedures, though it would be a lie if Ford had said he wasn’t a bit relieved that they were alone without the scrutinizing gaze of his past employee.

"I'm sure you're familiar with different shock therapies. I don't feel the need to explain it. Electroconvulsive Therapy shows extraordinary improvements in manic or depressed patients. And I'm sure you're aware...it isn't pleasant." The blond had finally revealed which treatment he had in mind, though Ford had been well aware by now. 

"They...show improvement?" Ford questioned. It wasn't the cynicism or embitterment that may be typical at this point; he just sounded surprised. Whatever he-- _ they _ \--had been doing, then, must not have worked, though he couldn't say he was surprised with Bill being this innovative. Things didn't look much different, but he wasn't going to point that out. He could trust Doctor Cipher, right?

It would be highly hypocritical and a bit embarrassing to make a comment about something not being pleasant at this point; he'd be among his former patients soon enough, anyway. 

"I suppose that's what the textbooks say, huh? That the patient  _ should _ show improvement? But I suspect we will find out." The physician turned away from the tray, now, and rested his hands on either side of his patient’s head.

“H—huh?” Now that... _ that _ sounded malicious, Ford was sure. And he was almost certain he had seen Bill’s lips curl into--...was that a  _ smile _ ?

Fortunately for Bill, at least, Ford would not remember that statement in a few minutes. Heart rate elevated, breathing becoming faster, palms sweaty, Ford was sure he looked visibly nervous. No, Ford was sure he looked  _ scared _ \-- really and truly in Bill’s presence, for the first time since the man arrived.

Slender, tan fingers came down to gently grab onto the man's glasses, Bill bending down so his lips rested dangerously close to Stanford's ear. "You won't be needing these for a fair amount of time." He whispered, voice low. As he stood, the glasses were pulled up with him and folded, then set aside.

Ford once again wanted to say something in protest,  _ frightened _ protest, as he didn’t want to be  _ blind _ as well as restrained, but Bill didn’t give him much time to talk. There hadn’t been much more of a conversation before a wooden tongue depressor and the metal dish with goop were plucked from the tray and the slimy lubricant was lathered on Ford's temples. With that done, those items were set aside in trade for the rubber biting guard. One hand forced Ford's jaw open with a gentle pry; the other shoved the guard in between the man's teeth before patting his jaw back closed. 

Fear overloaded Ford’s senses, but he knew any form of objecting right now would be a  _ bad _ idea. Still, he wished he’d been given more time to think, and this sudden change in behavior from a man he could now barely see was scarier than anything else.

Now Dr. Cipher’s dual-colored eyes studied the little black box and all the knobs. It seemed as if he debated what dosage to deliver before ultimately reaching for the farthest switch, making Ford’s heart jump at even the prospect of such a high setting. The dials were turned and adjusted, and a switch was flipped, which had the machine buzzing and whirring with electricity. Pronged drum-looking electrodes were lifted, a final switch was flipped...and Bill pressed the bases of the electrodes to Ford's temples, sending several volts of electricity through the man's head and nervous system. 

Stanford’s previous thought of Bill’s behavior having been the scariest thing to observe was quickly disproven. He’d gotten that wrong. What happened when it  _ started _ — **that** was scarier than anything else. 

When they were in their early youth, his twin, Stanley, had been electrocuted from trying to climb a phone pole once. He thought this would feel similar to what his brother experienced, but,  _ oh _ , it was far-off. At first, he felt nothing, just a tingling sensation around his temples, and he felt like whatever was supposed to be happening wasn’t working. Then, his mind blanked out entirely, and the real hell began. 

It would be slightly true to say all he knew was pain—his nerves were on fire, and he could barely think past the mind-numbing waves of discomfort, but that wasn’t  _ entirely _ true. There was also the terror of feeling restrained, of his body wanting to move in places it couldn’t, the tightness of his muscles, down to the way his jaw locked in place and his body convulsed, and the total inability to breathe. He thought he might suffocate. He could hear the electricity,  _ smell _ it, even. There were no screams, no sounds. It felt a little closer to drowning, he rationalized, mostly since he felt  _ floaty _ up-top, like nothing was quite right-- like he was removed from his own body and...

And—

He wasn’t entirely sure why he suddenly felt jittery or off-balance when he hadn’t even been standing. There was something in his mouth. He couldn’t see the man here. He couldn’t see anyone or anything past the little spots of color beyond the white in his eyes. Where was he? He took in a choked breath, feeling unconsciousness attempt to cradle him in comfort.

What had just happened? Why was he restrained? What happened today? At all? His brain felt cloudy, hazy. He felt like his thoughts were moving through a fog. He felt tired. He just wanted to sleep, preferably for at least 8 or 9 hours. He wanted to open his mouth to say something-- or try to, but there was a decent amount of time before he could catch his thoughts up to his body. The instinct to simply fall asleep was strong, but he fought it off. 

The whirring buzz from the machine wound to an end after a few clicks. A figure-- _ Bill _ \-- reached for the rubber mouthguard with a sigh and pulled it free from Ford's mouth. The piece was slapped back onto the tray, and the rag was picked up to wipe away any remnants of the goop on Ford’s head. Parts of his mouth where any saliva may have trailed were also wiped clean. Taking in a deep breath and throwing the rag aside, Bill finally decided to speak; Though his words didn't have the same calm and leveled tone Ford was so sure he was used to.

"It's practically torture, I know. You'll feel nauseated, dizzy, and confused for a good few hours, considering the voltage I delivered. Your ears will ring and your vision may be blurry, even if I were to give you your glasses back. However, the side effects don't last forever." Bill’s slender fingers now traveled down Ford's arm, gliding over every bump of raised skin. Gently, his fingertips trailed over the restraints before they were undone. 

Everything felt fuzzy; absurdly so. Ford could register what Bill said to him, but hardly his tone of voice. This was Bill, whom he trusted, and as soon as his hands were free, he attempted to reach up to rub at his throbbing head. It seemed an instinctual move more than anything he put conscious thought into doing. 

However, Bill took hold of the man’s wrists and guided them back down. "Don't move quite yet...you will be unstable and weak." He turned to shove the dirtied tray to the side now and tidy the surrounding area before coming to a stop by the table, looming over Ford with a studying gaze. "It's all for your own good. You know that...don't you?" 

There were a few seconds after Bill spoke that the brunet had to take to process what was said, staring up at the ceiling blankly. ".......Uh-hnn." He nodded eventually, though even the act of nodding hurt his jaw muscles, still tense and uncomfortable. 

He couldn't form many words right now, simply deciding upon not moving at all and laying his head back against the still gurney. All for his own good? That sounded right. That sounded believable. Bill was saying it, so it must be true. He was unwell, wasn't he?

"Good. Good, I am so...so glad you understand. That's important." The physician cooed.

Soon enough, the orderly returned, this time with a wheelchair. 

* * *

Ford was placed off in the corner of the dayroom, surrounded by other patients who roamed aimlessly around the small space. A few of those patients had stared at their previous doctor with confusion, questioning their own sanity of wondering if he was ever a doctor to begin with.   
  
Ford was left there for a few hours until Bill decided the man could at least feed himself and not miss his mouth. A tray with bland patient food had at one point been placed in front of him. The cold metal tray displayed a piece of stale bread, a bowl of watered-down chicken noodle soup, and a plain glass of milk for drinking. Nothing worth serving any kind of critic, that was certain. 

Ford was lucky, at least, that nobody said anything biting to him--confused looks were the most of it. The food wasn't great--scratch that, wasn't even decent--but after the day he'd had, it was food, and he was relieved to have anything at all. The next step would be to sleep; anywhere, anyhow. He just wanted that relief. But that would have to wait.

In the far end of the room, a radio hummed with the swarm of static. Whatever music it currently played had been drowned out over poor antenna reach. If Ford had to take a guess, it was the melody of wordless symphonies. Classical. It did no use in terms of entertainment now. Thank God it hadn’t been the only means of leisure around. A small television behind some plexiglass, currently buzzing on the same channel it always had, was mounted just above an old shelving unit that displayed a few board games with several missing pieces and a couple decks of cards that were torn and abused. The dayroom was merely a place for the more sane patients to reside and be free of their rooms’ constructs for a while—social interaction and all; absolutely  _ vital _ to the healing process.

Ford chose to try and pay mind to the TV, but that proved to be rather strenuous. Things on the screen moved at too fast a pace to keep up with. He wished he had something to read, anything, but instead, he challenged himself to make sense of anything that was being said before it ran away with him and he got lost in that floaty in-between. That is...until an orderly, for the first time in months, changed the channel on the murmuring television over to the news, the only other channel it could really get. The anchor was in the middle of a story that sounded important. 

"...The body was identified as Fiddleford H. McGucket, a heavily renowned psychiatric physician who dedicated his time to assisting different institutes to better the field of psychiatry. The majority of his belongings have still not been located. He was last seen leaving Blindeye Bridge Sanitarium in Palo Alto, California. In other news, an unnamed patient is still at large from the same institute. Be advised, this individual is described to be very dangerous and unstable. More at 11-" 

The television was changed back after the orderly got his fill of the news, and the channel gave out under the pressure of static, the signal too weak. 

Had...had he heard that correctly? Something about that story felt all too familiar. The news disturbed him, but it didn't entirely surprise him. Doctors being killed by their patients at institutes was horrifying, but it wasn't as rare as one might think. You became accustomed to that kind of news, sadly, after long enough in the field. But something nagged at Ford, telling him danger was lurking a bit closer to him than he would have liked. What...was that physician’s name? Fiddleford McGucket? Where had he seen something similar?

Bill soon found his way back into the commons after doing what one could only assume was sorting patient files or something of the sort. He held that research book he always scribbled in close to him over a clipboard. He stood next to Ford and gave a small smile. "Feeling any better, Mr. Pines?" 

Why was his heart pounding so heavily? Was there something to fear about Dr. Cipher? His body was screaming at him before his mind could make sense of any of the warnings. Brown eyes chanced a glance at Bill’s clipboard for a moment, scorched letters elegantly branded into the spine of the book’s leather bindings. 

F. H. M.

F...H...M…

Fiddleford H. McGucket. 

Oh... _ oh... _ **_oh no_ ** _. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't right...


End file.
